


Beneath the Blue

by Origingirl



Series: A Flickering Sun [5]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Fluff and Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Smut, Time for the goods!, here we go lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Origingirl/pseuds/Origingirl
Summary: It's about time Sinbad actually enjoys the country he's spent his life up until now creating, and he convinces Focalor to enjoy it with him—at the annual Sindrian Winter Solstice Festival. Music is danced to, food is eaten, drinks are drank, and at the end of it all, Sinbad asks Focalor a very startling question.
Relationships: Focalor/Sinbad (Magi)
Series: A Flickering Sun [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389592
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Threads

To say the King’s new look is a head-turner would be an understatement.

Today isn’t special in the slightest. It doesn’t warrant any fancy festival or carnevál costumes and certainly not any modest formal wear. It doesn’t mark the death of any important person or the birthday of a deity, so everyone in the kingdom is left to wonder why their beloved king looks like a monarch from _an entirely different country_.

Of course, Sinbad isn’t concerned with any onlookers in the slightest. He’s far too busy making rounds within his kingdom; taking stock, visiting markets, discussing trade at the docks. Jafar has been accompanying him all the while, and the advisor wasn’t sure how to bring up his king’s very obvious change of appearance when Sinbad himself is acting as if this is just like any other outfit he owns.

And the most interesting part about all this is that his metal vessels didn’t clash with the new look at all, contrary to what Jafar had initially thought when his king showed him the outfit in its casing.

By the time Sinbad’s rounds were finished, the sun had long since set. Dinner had been prepared upon the king’s arrival, but the meal was mostly small talk. No one knew how to address the elephant in the room. No one knew if there was a reason behind the abrupt wardrobe change or if Sinbad did it just because (the latter of which, while it wouldn’t be surprising, is still jarring nonetheless).

Jafar couldn’t put his finger on it, but the whole day Sinbad seemed to have an abnormal pep in his step. While his king is ordinarily a friendly person by nature, today was different somehow. Every smile seemed genuine, as did every compliment and act of kindness.

If the advisor thought about it, it made him recall the early days when Sinbad was still a king in the making. That sparkle in his eyes when he stopped in the street to quickly kick back a ball to playing children or when he assisted a group of merchants with carrying stock onto their ship… 

And then Jafar realized he hadn’t seen Sinbad like this in _years._

The wide-eyed boy who set out to forge a country free of the muddled chaos and greed of the world: _that’s_ who he saw today. And he has no clue as to what could have been the catalyst for this sudden change (which Jafar undoubtedly thought is what made him change outfits to begin with).

Whatever the reason, Jafar hopes it persists. 

After years without a break in lifestyle as king, Jafar is happy his king seems to be more like his old self.

The next day, Sinbad surprised the whole kingdom yet again with another flashy selection of garb, not unlike the previous one, but certainly more regal in color and ornamentation.

His smile only seemed to glow brighter than the day before.

Well… the Winter Solstice Festival was coming up in a month or so. Perhaps the King of Sindria was doing this in order to get the excitement flowing early, but Jafar doubted the thought the moment it crossed his mind.

Not only is the style of garb a far cry from his norm, but the _fit_ is what made Jafar wonder why his king would bother. 

These outfits are slim and trimmed, accentuating rather than hiding Sinbad’s toned musculature.

Jafar never thought it possible, but these outfits managed to acquire him more admiring, glossy stares from women around the kingdom than usual.

While the ex-assassin couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Sinbad changing his wardrobe just to gain more attention from the ladies, he doubted that was the reason. If Jafar has come to learn anything about the man over the years, Sinbad has more of an aesthetic appreciation for the female profile—nothing more. His engagement with the opposite sex as only ever been a mere boyish bout of coyness.

Yes, Jafar is indeed overjoyed that Sinbad seems his old self.

But, truly, what could motivate his king to wear an outfit that’s even an ounce more restrictive than his normal loose-hanging garb? Had it even been a choice of his?

After a week of one outfit to the next, and with Sinbad not showing any signs of losing interest in them anytime soon, Jafar saw fit to finally ask him about it.

Sinbad allowed himself (or rather, Jafar persistently insisted until his king agreed) a one and a half-hour break from work midday. It was in the palace hall Jafar found Sinbad, idly sipping tea and engaged in some recreational reading.

“Sin.” Jafar greeted him informally since they were alone.

Sinbad glanced upward and Jafar was met with that same joyous smile his king had given almost everyone since he began to wear the new outfits.

“Jafar! Need something?”

“Well, no. I just… couldn’t help but notice…” Jafar paused, wondering if Sinbad has been at all aware of his kingdom’s reaction to his new look.

“Yes?” Sinbad set down his cup of tea and scroll to give his advisor his full attention. “What is it?”

“You ah… you look different.”

A moment passed over their heads, and then Sinbad did something that Jafar thinks is exactly like him; his king looked at him, then down at his clothes, and then at his advisor, and then back down at his clothes, and then spoke an “oh, yeah,” of sudden realization, as if he was unaware he’s even wearing anything at all.

Jafar wanted to smack him.

“Thought it was time for a change, y’know? Same outfit can get a bit dull.”

“Wh— _Sin_ , you’ve been wearing your robes since you _became_ king.”

“Well, yeah.” Sinbad sheepishly shrugged. “But… I mean—hey, better late than never, right?”

Jafar knew he would never have any hope of understanding this man. He knows this. He does. But still.

“I suppose. You have the entire kingdom whipped up, but _so long as you’re happy_.”

That seemed to catch his king’s attention.

“Why? I mean—yes, ok, I don’t dress like this all the time—”

“You’ve only ever dressed like this once or twice and that was before anyone knew your name, Sin.” Jafar deadpanned at him. “It’s entirely new! You expect to waltz around Sindria looking like that and _not_ make your citizens burn with questions as to why?”

“I didn’t think—”

“Apparently, you didn’t.”

“C’mon, Jafar!” Sinbad gestured wise with his arms. “What’s the big deal?”

“The _big deal_ , Sin, is that the _King of Sindria_ looks like he doesn’t belong in _Sindria.”_

“Well—ok then. I mean, everyone knows who I am. The hair color is a tad hard to miss. So why worry?”

“There’s always something to worry about when you introduce an unexpected variable into the kingdom; especially if that variable is their king.”

Sinbad’s face morphed from vaguely displeased to distraught. “You worry too much.”

“I’m worrying _for you_ these days, Sin.”

“Look. I just—” Sinbad took a step back from himself. He isn’t sure what doom his wardrobe change could possibly bring to his country. Maybe Jafar just wanted an explanation. “I feel different—better, I guess. So I dressed differently. That’s not _bad.”_

Sinbad, as if at that moment becoming fully conscious of the fact that he stuck out like a sore thumb, fiddled timidly with the small white ropes and buttons on his garb.

It was then that Jafar also realized it was a mistake asking him. Of course, his natural inclination is to worry for his king. Extra attention from his kingdom could be a good or a bad thing depending on who noticed. Jafar just wanted to ensure nothing fishy was going on, and that this wardrobe change was a genuine choice made by his king.

The ex-assassin approached his king with a regretful face, sitting next to him in the elaborate stairwell Sinbad chose to take a break on.

“Of course.” Jafar said. “It’s not bad. I just—gods I don’t know. I speculate, and that turns to worry.”

Sinbad cracked an amused smile before ruffling the other's hair. “Too much. And that’s not up for debate.”

Jafar returned the smile and then a small bout of silence gripped them both.

“I’m ok, Jafar.” Sinbad said, voice nearly a whisper.

Jafar looked at him with a doubtful face, to which his king laughed at.

“Really! I am… I’m—I feel fantastic, I truly do.”

Whether it was the look of sincerity on his face or the light sing-song quality of his tone, Sinbad really did look in high spirits. Jafar supposes he will just have to take Sin’s word for it.

“Then… I’m glad. More than glad.” Jafar said, rising up from his seat and descending the few steps he walked up. “I’m sorry for fussing.”

“Oh, please. The day you stop fussing I’ll have to think you’re an imposter, and that the real Jafar has been kidnapped.” Sinbad chuckled.

Jafar rolled his eyes. “An ex-assassin getting kidnaped, huh?”

“You know what I mean.” Sinbad waved his hand in a parting gesture. “I’ll see you later today!”

✭

Another week passed by and the King of Sindria’s outfit choice became more diverse. Different ornaments that could attach and reattach to mix and match with every vest, jacket, and coat. They’re all deep shades of blue, magenta, green, and red.

Sinbad wonders when the hype of his sudden shift in appearance will die down.

Now, he thinks to himself, he’s starting to understand what Jafar had been getting at a week ago.

Admiration was all well and good, but in a constant stream that manifested in large crowds has been tiring to say the least.

What’s been done has been done, however, and Sinbad’s sure that if he were to suddenly swap back, the talk and gossip would only transfer over.

 _‘Don’t think about that.’_ A warm presence on the back of his neck whispered. _‘Who cares what others think when I think you look utterly **ravishing.’**_ It spoke low and soothingly, sending a small shiver down Sinbad’s spine.

He smiled, realizing the absurdity in worrying about it all. He felt good in this new look, and that’s what’s important.

Ever since that night in the bathhouse, Sinbad felt about as confident in himself and his goals as he had when he was young. Why not dress to reflect that confidence?

 _‘Exactly.’_ The warm presence replied, moving to circle around his neck and shoulders. _‘No need to worry, my king.’_

✭

The small country may look ablaze to sailors on the night tide, and perhaps this notion holds true to a degree, for the fiery enthusiasm of festival lights illuminated the air above.

Sindria is a glowing beacon on nights like this, attracting trade ships passing by to stop and make merry while on their routes. Seamen and merchants alike would dock at the country's coastal border and witness the glory of the Sindrian Winter Solstice Festival.

While he may not have celebrated it growing up himself, Sinbad relished and took pride in his country having such a wide and diverse population, bringing with it holidays he can't believe he's never had the pleasure of partaking in before. The Winter Solstice is well known among the scattered peoples living on smaller island towns located a few days sailing distance from Sindria. Many of these peoples had been the first to show interest in joining the nation, so Sinbad happily adopted the Winter Solstice as one of the few national holidays. 

From the first festival led by those most experienced in its traditions, Sinbad was blown away by colors, smells, sounds, and tastes of the likes he could only dream of. It was the very first instance he felt proud—proud of not only him and his original team, but also proud that he forged a place in the world where people felt they've made a home.

Home wasn't something familiar to Sinbad before he founded his country, in the sense of a tactile place. He wouldn't trade his childhood growing up in the small fishing port with his parents for anything… 

…yet, he always yearned for a stable, reliable plot of land to call his own. Perhaps that was another puzzle piece in his reasoning to have ventured out in the first place. Or perhaps that had been the seed of it all.

Whichever it was, it had been responsible for the making of a marvelous country that is home to him as well as the many others who had been searching for one.

He is happy.

Mostly.

He usually would have been down there with his people—his family—joining in the rejoicing, the food, drink, music… but tonight the metaphysical weighed heavily upon him.

The night in the bathhouse filled him with just as much skepticality as it did confidence. Questions of his curse—his very fate—as well as his bond with Focalor flooded him, filling his ears with whispers of doubt.

It is frustrating, to say the least.

Then, his cheeks warmed at his djinns words after Focalor had abruptly slapped him… right before kissing him more passionately than he ever had.

No, Sinbad thought to himself. You will not sully these memories with your own pointless hateful prattle.

Straightening his posture, Sinbad turned to leave the balcony from where he watched his citizens dance, drink, and make merry.

And then the Focalor's silver bangle pulsed rapidly, as if it were the djinn’s actual hand stopping him from leaving.

Smiling, Sinbad turned back towards the balcony and let the evening breeze comb through his purple hair. He conjured one pleasant memory with the wind djinn after the other until, as was the case last time, Focalor himself was standing in front of his king.

“And what, pray tell,” Sinbad took a step forward so he was only a mere foot apart from his djinn, “could you possibly want?”

Gleaming ochre eyes gazed at Sinbad through raven feather bangs. A gleeful aura radiated from Focalor, consuming his solid form and even mingling with his king’s rukh.

“I felt you again. Potently.” Focalor said with a gentle smile. He moved to place a hand on his king’s cheek, to which Sinbad leaned into and kissed the palm of.

“You did, did you?” Sinbad smiled against his djinn’s hand, looking at the marvelous ethereal being in front of him and wondering what motives shone within his eyes.

“Yes. It’s different from the last two times, though.”

Sinbad’s eyes lit up with interest. “Oh? How so?”

Focalor hummed in thought. He took one final step to close the gap between them, wrapping both arms around his king to get a better feel of his rukh.

“The happiness is still there… but also a brilliant confidence…” Focalor explained. He drew back from his king but kept both hands placed on Sinbad’s shoulders.

“Pride.” The wind djinn said after a moment. “You’re feeling a strong sense of pride.”

Sinbad warmed at his djinn’s deduction. He remembers feeling that after he had conjured Focalor the last time, too.

“I am proud.” Sinbad took both of his djinn’s hands in his own, looking up at the gorgeous being who has sworn not just to follow him, but to be his and his alone.

“I’m proud of how much my country has grown, my citizens, the people closest to me, but more so than anything in the world right now, I’m proud of **us.** ” Sinbad said, and he loved the way that sounded. Us.

“Sin.” Focalor murmured, unsure of what to say.

There was a type of unity between king and djinn, but somehow, Focalor felt **“us”** is far more powerful of a connection—a binding spell in its own right. And for his king to want Focalor to be a part of “us” with him is… 

“We agreed, didn’t we? That you’d be mine, and I yours?” Sinbad’s voice cut through the wind djinn’s thoughts. He brought his hand down to Focalor’s lower back and drew him in slowly, pressing his left cheek against his djinn’s right one.

“Ah—of course. We did. Yes, we did.” Focalor’s said, voice shaking as much as his form was in this warm, velvety moment of sentimentality. “I’m—I’m proud of—of us, too, Sin. Gods, you’ve grown to be such a beautiful soul.”

Sinbad’s laugh was like a soft song that danced through the cool, summer air. “I hope so. Though, we never cease growing, do we?”

Focalor chuckled along with his king. He began carding silken violet hair through his light blue fingers, always admiring how effortlessly sleek Sinbad’s hair is. He began to trace small lines on his kings back, following the seams of this new, fitting attire.

“I must say.” Focalor trailed his hands just below his king’s torso and then gave a firm squeeze.

An unexpecting Sinbad gave a small yelp of surprise and jolted out of his djinn’s hold.

“This new garb of yours makes you look far more **_inviting_** than your usual.” Focalor’s expression took on a rather impish grin, clearly pleased with himself for eliciting such an undignified reaction from his king.

Sinbad only appeared to be irritated for a moment before laughing it off. “I didn’t think you would have noticed the change… if it weren’t for your energy pawing at my skin all week!”

“How could I not?” Focalor said, and then swooped in to dip his king as if they had been dancing. “I knew you’d _look_ just as good as you _felt_ in this outfit.”

“So you think it’s appropriate to grope your king when he’s in the middle of signing trade agreements?”

“Oh, Sin, you wound me.” Focalor’s form suddenly lifted off the ground, rising a few feet up and taking on a position that made him appear physically hurt. “You wear something as form-fitting as this and expect me to turn a blind eye? How inconsiderate.”

Sinbad had to mask a chuckle, attempting to play along as best he could. He sighed instead, putting his hands on his hips. “Well… I _was_ going to let you inspect my new outfit all you like after the Winter Solstice Festival, but, if you think _so ill_ of me, perhaps I’ve already deterred you from the notion.”

As if Sinbad had spoken the magic words, Focalor spun around, eyes bright as he descended back to the ground. “Really?”

Sinbad, unwilling to give up the game just yet, put up a finger and waved it in front of his djinn. “Under one condition.”

“Anything.” Focalor’s voice bubbled to the brim with the promise of his king. 

Sinbad moved to press a small kiss to the bridge of Focalor’s nose. “Come down and celebrate with me. Do that, and I promise you can have me all to yourself afterward.”

Focalor visibly flinched at that.

All amusement dropped from Sainbads eyes and was replaced with genuine concern. He cupped his djinn’s face with both hands before asking, “What’s wrong?”

The wind djinn sighed and then shrugged shortly after. “I… I don’t know. You’ve garnered enough attention with the outfit change. Wouldn’t your subjects gawk at you even more with one of your djinn out in full view for the entire evening?”

“I don’t care about that.” Sinbad said, and then realized how dismissive that may have sounded. “What I mean is, I want to have fun with you. This festival is one of Sindria’s most vibrant celebrations.” He said soothingly, stroking his thumbs across the wind djinn’s feather-laced cheeks. “I want us to celebrate, you and me—together. We’ve earned it, don’t you think?”

Focalor smiled and fully surrendered to the warmth of his king’s hands. “I suppose we have.”

✭

The wind djinn was not expecting his king to recommend he throw on something more suitable for the occasion, but found it to be a pleasant surprise. After awakening as an immortal being in this new world, the last thing Focalor thought about was clothing. But allowing his king to pamper him with garments and accessories made him feel, well… the least bit of a djinn he’s felt since Alma Taran.

“I think you’d look just as amazing in a fit like mine, don’t you?” Sinbad said, enthusiastically swishing back hanger after hanger of outfits hung on a pole in one of the many wings of his elaborate closet.

Focalor almost couldn’t keep track of the man, in front of him one minute to hold up outfit after outfit before his body, and then giving him one before putting the rest back. This frenzy accumulated in six vastly different garbs for the wind djinn to choose from.

“Where did you get all of these to begin with?” Focalor asked, floating to the left of where Sinbad had laid the chosen outfits on his bed, thoughtfully looking over one after the other.

“Being a king _does_ have its perks, especially when you have a reputation as the conqueror of the seven seas.” Sinbad said, walking up behind Focalor. He watched his djinn fiddle with the ornaments and ropes and zippers of the six outfits. “It wasn’t hard to call in a few favors from a few allies.”

Focalor hummed in acknowledgment, but that was all he gave as a response. His ethereal blue fingers ghosted over the velvet and cotton and satin of the clothes. Sinbad noticed a look on his djinns face he hasn’t really seen before. It was awe, but there was something reflective about it, as if Focalor’s memory was triggered by these clothes or just the prospect of clothes in general.

“You seem rather engrossed.” Sinbad’s voice came directly from behind Focalor’s ear, his arms wrapping around his djinn’s waist. “You like them this much?”

“I… yes.” Focalor said, a small shiver running across the skin of his neck where his king began to lavish small, feather-light kisses. “When my humanity was ripped from me and Solomon forged us into djinns to fight, all of it left me. Everything you can think of that a human would care about or worry themselves over… I became a _blank slate.”_

Sinbad’s hands came to rest comfortingly on Focalor’s hips and his head on the wind djinn’s shoulder. Focalor rolled the material of the last outfit in between his thumbs and fingers. He brought it up to his cheek and skimmed the silky thing across his skin. “Even the texture… I’ve forgotten all the different textures clothes can have.”

“That’s…” Sinbad paused, pondering on the significance of his djinn’s words. Forgetting how clothing feels? The texture of clothes is as natural to him and every other human just as breathing or eating is. For some reason, the difference of their existence didn’t hit Sinbad harder than it did right now.

“This one.” Focalor’s voice cut through Sinbad’s thoughts. From the bed, he pulled up a deep, dark magenta garment. The low candlelight of Sinbad’s chambers combined with the moon’s light trickling in from the windows cast a gentle sheen of silver and gold radiance over the soft velvet exterior, making the broach, buttons, and ropes twinkle.

What was particularly interesting about this outfit was the coat’s long tail, tapering off into dark feathers sewn in to make a cape-like effect as the wearer walked. The same feathers were incorporated into the shoulder pads so that the face of whoever wore this would be framed in a curve of regality. 

Of course, Sinbad thought, he’d go with the feathers. And the outfit’s color matched that of Focalor’s eyes—as if the garment were made for him. He told as much to the wind djinn, and Focalor modestly smiled in return.

“I suppose. I just love the softness.” said Focalor, admiring the intricate embroidery that ran from each button up towards the chest of the outfit. “It’s nice. Comforting.”

“Well, if you like it that much, it’s yours.” Sinbad said, taking the garment from Focalor to brush what little dust the shoulder feathers housed off before giving it back to its new owner.

Focalor hesitated a beat, and then accepted it.

The wind djinn had that same look of nostalgic awe in his eyes, his posture, the slight quivering of his bottom lip Sinbad noticed whenever Focalor felt nervous. He hugged the garment close, wanting to feel more of the velvet, wanting to relish in something he hasn’t for many lifetimes past.

His voice shook as much as his shoulders did when he whispered a “thank you” to his king. Sinbad waited with a patient smile, elated beyond anything he could provide Focalor with something to remind him of his previous life… hopefully in a good way.

Sinbad placed a hand on his djinn’s shoulder. Focalor snapped out of the trance at the contact, meeting his king’s eyes.

“Allow me to help?” Sinbad offered, aware of the fact that Focalor may not remember how to operate clothing if he couldn’t recall the texture of it.

Focalor nodded, placing the outfit in his king’s hands. “That would probably be for the best, lest we risk me ruining it.”

Sinbad laughed as he walked over to the bed to begin dissecting Focalor’s garment of choice. “I’ll show you as many times as you need to master clothing once again.”

Focalor followed him, feeling a warmth bloom at Sinbad’s words. The humanity that he thought had been ripped from him for good… maybe that had never been the case. Maybe it’s only hidden—hidden behind the centuries spent dormant and then alone in the depths of a dungeon. Because ever since the night in the bathhouse, Focalor realizes he’s not only a djinn but a _person_ , too. And with his king’s gift of clothing that _people_ wear, Focalor felt a gap he didn’t even realize was there between him and this new dynamic with Sinbad beginning to close.

The slide of fabric along his skin as Sinbad fastened it felt divine. It was warm, and not too snug while still flattering Focalor’s form. Sinbad is slow and deliberate with his movements as if sensing how much his djinn loved the feeling. 

Piece by piece, Sinbad slipped on, folded over, and clasped together the dark velvet outfit. A sigh escaped the wind djinn as his king completed the puzzle with a click of the garment's neck broach before sliding his hands around Focalor’s neck. 

“How’s that feel?” Sinbad asked, his voice low and warm next to his djinn’s ear.

“Good.” Focalor breathed, wrapping his arms around his king’s waist. “Amazing. It’s like a soft full-body hug. I never want to take it off.”

“Well… that’s a shame.” Sinbad chuckled, moving to ghost his lips over his djinn’s. “Not even for me?”

“Hm.” Focalor pretended to ponder the notion, a small smile gracing his lips. “You _did_ give it to me. I guess taking it off for you is the exception.”

“Your generosity is appreciated.” Sinbad said, pulling away and backing up to get a good view of his djinn drenched in jewels and draped in velvet. He extended his arm for Focalor to take. “Shall we?”

Focalor felt a small bubbling in his chest at the prospect of going out into the public eye with his king, the both of them dressed to the heavens. With a calming sigh, he took his king’s arm and linked his own with it.

“Let’s go.”


	2. Lights

You wouldn't be able to tell it was nighttime with the amount of festival lights stippling the sky—each one of them a warm, glowing dot of life.

Focalor almost wanted to shield his eyes. The transition from the dark atmosphere of his king’s quarters to the vibrant one of the festival is stark, to say the least. They had to walk the length of the castle and then some to finally arrive at the scene of the party. Just outside the castle gates to the left were one of the few long, grand staircases carved into Sindria’s soil. It was here where Sinbad and Focalor needed to descend to access the celebration. 

“I don’t know about this.” Focalor whispered to his king as they descended farther and closer to the Winter Solstice Festival’s center. “We’re dressed like this as it is… and most of the kingdom is already down there. Wouldn’t we be making a grand entrance this way?”

“Of course.” Sinbad said, both his voice and facial expression the farthest thing from concerned. “Would you expect anything less of me?”

“Sin.” Focalor attempted to reprimand him but soon fell victim to his king's radiant mood. “Fine. But if I have to rescue you from an adoring crowd that could clobber you the second you show up, I’ll be less than pleased.”

“Or you.” Sinbad smirked, pressing a light kiss to his djinn’s cheek. “You’re looking quite delectable yourself, you know.”

“I think I’d faint.” The wind djinn chuckled at the mental image of himself getting swept away by a bout of humans. “Unless you’ve forgotten, I’ve only recently felt comfortable around others again after centuries of isolation in a dungeon.”

“All the more reason for you to socialize, my dear djinn.”

“You promise not to leave my side?”

“Oh, but Focalor, the festival is huge! Surely you’ll want to venture out on your own.”

The wind djinn sighed, inching closer to his king in an effort to calm his nerves. “Maybe. I don’t know. Just… at least for the first hour?”

Sinbad wrapped an arm around his djinn’s waist in a comforting gesture, to which Focalor leaned into. “Ok. I’ll stick to you like glue for the first hour. After that, we’ll see how you’re feeling, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ok. Ok.” The metaphorical butterflies were ready to burst out of Focalor’s stomach as they reached the last twenty or so steps. After that, they’d have nowhere to hide from the public eye. “Here we go.”

Much to both of their surprise, no one afforded them a single glance when they walked down and off the last step, now standing in front of the many tents pitched for food, drinks, and entertainment. Sinbad could practically feel the wind djinn shaking against him. Focalor was most likely _more_ nervous because his previous expectation was not met.

“Well,” Sinbad sheepishly looked to the stone-laid ground. “I guess the real party is farther away from the castle this year.”

“You don’t know?” Focalor turned to him with a quirked brow.

“I mean, I don’t really set up everything. I make sure everyone who does has what they need to make it happen, but I’m not too well versed in this particular holiday, so I leave it to the experts.”

“Ah…” was all Focalor said in response.

“C’mon just a bit further. _I won’t_ leave your side.”

“Ok.”

Tent tops streamed the sides of Sindria’s alleyways, sidewalks, and streets. The whole country seemed to be alive and breathing with the filtering of bodies in every conceivable direction. The smells soon made their way to the royal duo, and Focalor began to feel a little at ease from mixed aromas of rosemary, cardamom, cinnamon, and fruits. 

More heads were turned the closer they got to the festival square. Whispers picked up in volume until Focalor could flat out overhear what the citizens of Sindria had to say about both their king’s outfit and his companion.

_Wow. That’s the most glorious outfit yet! Yeah, it’s all decked out in buttons and ropes and stuff! Who’s that with the king? Are they an ambassador from another country? The king never said anything about a visitor from another land. Wait—his skin! It’s blue! That has to be a djinn! Where are they going? I didn’t know a djinn could exist in this world as their own entity. Their outfits kind of match, huh? Well, I think they’re regality personified. I never knew a djinn could be so handsome! His feathers are so pretty! I wonder which one of the seven he is._

Focalor felt heat slowly rising to his face, his blue skin tinted a soft violet. 

“Sounds like you’re a hit with Sindria.” Sinbad said. “Told ya you had nothing to worry about.”

“I—I guess so.” The wind djinn said, keeping his gaze centered on the path they were walking. He’s certain if he chanced a glance in any other direction, it would be met with the curious eyes of a citizen. 

“Which means,” Sinbad paused, a mischievous look forming on his face. “You’ll be an _even bigger_ hit with the _ladies.”_

 ** _“Sinbad!”_** Focalor swished his head to meet his king’s playful golden eyes. “Please! I’m nervous as it is! Could you _not?”_

“What? I’m just speaking the truth.”

“Yes, well, _it’s not very helpful right now.”_

“Focalor.” Sinbad stopped walking and spun Focalor around to look at him. “I promised I won’t leave your side, right? So, lighten up a bit. I’ll be right here. Joke with me, have fun with me. Pretend it’s just the two of us if you have to.”

“Kind of hard with _hundreds of eyes_ on you.” Focalor glumly remarked, the shade of violet deepening on his cheeks.

“Hey.” Sinbad drew Focalor in closer by the hands, lacing his fingers with his djinn’s. “You and I fought a lot of battles to make Sindria a reality. I brought you with me tonight because… well—I want to enjoy it. I want to reap our rewards. Don’t you think you should be able to find happiness here, too? You remember what I promised you when I conquered your dungeon, right?”

Focalor gazed at their twined hands and thought back to that fateful day—the day where Sinbad told him if he were to swear his loyalty and lend his power, he’d use it to forge the safest place on the planet—full of life, and not death. Not the death Focalor had to watch day after day—humans throwing themselves into the mouth of his dungeon in a quest for power… all of them failing and paying the ultimate price.

“I remember.” Focalor said, pressing his king’s hands to his chest—above where his heart would be. “I remember, Sin.”

“And just look at Sindria now. Look at everyone singing, dancing— _living_. By having lent me your power, we _both_ made this happen. So now, I want to enjoy that with you—enjoy _**life**_ with you.” Sinbad said, and then brought a hand up from Focalor’s chest to cradle the side of his feather-lined face.

“Exist with me? Just for one night?”

Focalor couldn’t help but chuckle at his king’s word choice. He placed his hand atop his king’s and moved to kiss the palm. “Alright, Sin. I’m with you. Always.”

“Fantastic!” As quickly as Sinbad’s face morphed to that of concern, it changed to gleeful optimism. “Let’s go! There are so many things to show you!”

The wind djinn nearly fell over from the semi-harsh tug Sinbad gave to his arm, dragging him further and further to the festival square.

But looking at his king’s beautiful eyes reflect the amber festival lights and all the joy they housed within them, Focalor decided that, whatever the night held, so long as he was beside Sinbad, he’d be ok.

✭

If Focalor thought the sky was bright at first, the festival center was at least ten times as bright. Lights of a dozen different colors streamed from tent to tent in ropes of vibrant blues, yellows, oranges, and greens. The aromas Focalor had previously found calming were now overwhelming his senses, smell after smell filtering across is nose every second.

There are lots more people, too, and of all ages: children, infants, elders, and primed men and women. All of them were busy eating, drinking, dancing, laughing, or walking somewhere to do one or all of those things.

“Where do you want to start?” Sinbad said, a bit louder than his usual talking voice because of all the noise around them.

The wind djinn glanced to his left, then his right. Contrary to what he thought, less and less people paid them mind the closer inward to the festival square they ventured. And now that they were here, everyone looked far too preoccupied to notice their king and his djinn in the middle of it all.

This did give Focalor some comfort. He hoped this meant he could ease his way into socializing as the minutes ticked on. 

Glancing around, his eyes caught on a red banner labeled “KABOBS”. He wasn’t sure if his king had eaten yet, so he pointed to it. “What about that tent?”

“Good idea! I’m starving.” Sinbad gleefully took his djinn’s hand and guided him through the bustling crowd.

They had to wait for a moment before the line dwindled down. Focalor wasn’t sure why Sinbad just used his title to cut through and grab some of the food, but maybe… he wasn’t in the mood to be too kingly this evening (even if his—their—outfits were a contradictory statement to that).

When the duo finally made it up to where the gentleman serving up the kabobs could get a good glimpse of them, he immediately paused what he was doing and quickly bowed.

“Your majesty! It’s an honor.” The man said. “It’s good to see you out and about enjoying the festival.”

“Please, no need for formality.” Sinbad offered the man a sincere smile.

He smiled back before turning his head to his king’s unusual looking guest. “And who’s this? An ambassador?”

Sinbad laughed before wrapping an arm around Focalor’s shoulders. “That’s what I keep overhearing. No, no, this is Focalor, one of my seven djinns.”

At that, the man seemed even more startled, quickly bowing to Focalor as well. “It’s an honor to meet you as well. I’d like to personally thank you for working with his highness to keep our country safe.”

“I—uh.” Focalor stammered, looking for words—any words—to reply to such an open and genuine display of gratitude from a person he’s never met. “Thank you, it’s—a pleasure. You have a wonderful man for a king.” He said, feeling the soft heat and violet hue return to his face.

The man laughed, and then focused his attention back to his stove. “We sure do! Never lived in a country as amazing as this before.”

“You’ve lived elsewhere?” Focalor asked, surprising both himself and Sinbad by his sudden initiation of conversation. But this man seemed at ease, welcoming, and calm in his nature. Focalor didn’t feel as threatened or nervous as he thought he’d feel talking to a citizen.

“Oh, yes. Many, many places have been my home. I was a nomad of sorts before I found Sindria. It was the only land I couldn’t bring myself to leave.”

“Oh? What made you stay?” Focalor inquired further. “Was it a woman? Did you settle down with her?”

“Nothing of the sort.” The man snickered. “Unfortunately, by the time I got here, I was well past my prime.” The man said, stirring a colorful combination of vegetables and beef on the stone stovetop, gently seasoning them from time to time. He had a reflective look in his eyes as he did this.

“How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.” Focalor asked.

The man chuckled before replying, “Take a guess?”

Sinbad hummed beside him, his arm still around his djinn. “What do you say, Focalor? I’d wager no older than fifty.”

“You flatter me, my king. But no. Higher.”

“Ahh, sixty?” Sinbad tried again.

“Nope. Higher.”

Focalor hadn’t the slightest clue how this human man could be older than sixty. He had a few wrinkles, and his hair was a messy mixture of greys and blacks, but other than that his muscles were very well defined, his skin as tight as a young, twenty-year-old man’s.

“Surely not any older than seventy.” Focalor spoke up, and the man looked at him with amusement, moving to collect the grilled food and began to skewer it on a wooden stick.

“Seventy-eight.” He replied, and then handed Sinbad two fresh hot beef kabobs.

“Incredible.” Sinbad replied, accepting the food.

“That’s… but you—” Focalor began, but was cut off with a wave of the man’s hand.

“Don’t look a day past fifty? That’s what a lot of people tell me, Focalor. Believe me, if it weren’t for the life I’ve lived, I’d probably look like any other sour old man.”

“Not all elders are sour, I’m sure. I’m speaking with you, and you don’t seem sour.” Focalor said, a small grin finding its way onto his face. He was enjoying this easy exchange of words more than he’d thought.

“Well,” The man shrugged, appearing wistful. “I thought all djinn’s were scary. And then I met you. So I guess you’re right.”

“Ah—I—Thank you.” Focalor could feel his face heating even more at the compliments that kept rolling off this man. “Although—some _are_ terrifying.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The man laughed. He put up a hand to deny the coins Sinbad was about to give to him to pay for the food. “On the house, your majesty.”

“C’mon, it's the Winter Solstice! Don’t give me special treatment.” Sinbad argued.

The man gave a simple shrug. “Then consider it a thank you for all the good you’ve done for these people and for this world.” He said, and then turned to give the wind djinn a wink. “You as well, Focalor.”

“Thank you—um. What’s your name?” Focalor asked.

“Steinar. Steinar Istvan.”

“Well, Steinar. It’s good to meet you. Thank you for the talk. I—haven’t spoken to others in a long time.” the wind djinn said, lowering his head slightly in a bout of embarrassment.

The man only laughed at that. “Well, you should try it more often now that you can. I’ve heard you dwell in dungeons waiting for people like our king to come rescue you. Sounds awful.”

Sinbad snorted at the man's comment that could have easily implied Focalor was a damsel awaiting their savior. Focalor elbowed him in irritation, but that did nothing to wipe away his king’s smug expression.

“I’m glad our king was able to get you out of there. I understand humans can be capable of cruelty in this world, believe me. But, we can be nice from time to time, too. I’m happy you can get out and see the world and meet its people now.” Steinar remarked with a chuckle.

Focalor hummed in agreement, the memories of all those centuries of isolation flashing briefly before his eyes, and then a warmth flooded his chest, realizing he’d never have to endure that again because he picked Sinbad to follow.

“Djinn’s can be just as cruel as any human. That’s our choice just as much as it is yours.” Focalor said.

“Absolutely. We’re all people at the end of the day, right?” Steinar said, getting more ingredients ready to make more kabobs. 

“Yes.” Focalor said, the weight of his king’s arm across his shoulders suddenly feeling heavier. “I suppose we are.”

“We’ll let you get cooking. See you around, Steinar!” Sinbad waved as he turned around, taking his djinn with him.

“Enjoy the festival, sire. Don’t be strangers!”

“We won’t!” Sinbad yeled over the crowd.

✭

He and Focalor walked a bit further until they found a place to sit. It was right on the rim of an elevated terrace that overlooked a large water fountain. The sound of the water rushing out tubes and then pounding into the shallow pool below could just barely be heard over the noise of hundreds of voices around them. To their left, a wide stage housed dancers that swished and swayed to eccentric music.

“You didn’t faint after all.” Sinbad jokingly remarked once they both settled at a table. “That’s a relief. I was afraid I’d have to come _rescue_ you.”

“Ha–ha. Very funny.” Focalor said, his tone betraying his words. But after a moment, he couldn’t help but smile back at his king’s amused grin. “It felt… oh, I don’t know. It felt surreal, but not in a bad way.”

“Glad you’re warming up.” Sinbad said, taking a bite out of his kabob. “Come to think of it, I—guess I’m the only human you’ve talked to at length in a long time, huh?”

“That you are, my king.” Focalor said, turning his head to watch the dancers, their colorful ribbons and jewels swaying around and around. “Don’t let that go to your head, though.”

“Wh— _me?_ Never.” Sinbad said, scarfing down more of his kabobs. “I’m the most humble man you’ll ever meet.”

“Of course.” Focalor said, glancing at his king’s outfit. “Why else would you opt to wear such _modest_ clothes?”

“As if you don’t like how I look in them.” His king said with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I never said _that_.”

“You may as well have.” Sinbad’s face shifted, appearing to be offended by the remark, but Focalor knew it was all an act.

“Oh, Sin.” The wind djinn sighed, standing from his seat and walking around to the other side of the table. He draped his arms over his king’s shoulders. “Haven’t I already expressed my… _approval_ of your wardrobe change several times now?” He said, his voice low and his mouth directly next to his king’s ear.

Sinbad shivered at the sudden closeness of his djinn and edge to his tone. “Yeah… sure you have. Hard to forget when you’re signing trade agreements and you feel phantom hands groping at your chest.” He said, bringing his hands up to rest on Focalor’s arms.

“Exactly.” And, as if to prove his point further, he trailed his fingers down to the bells and whistles currently adorning Sinbad’s chest. “What’s important is your modest spirit, Sin.” He said, taking his time to trace each rope, button, and embroidery lining the garment. “And your free soul.”

Sinbad took a moment to enjoy the soft touches, and then his mind centered on those last four words. And then his heart felt a little heavier. “That’s not the case though, is it.”

“What are you talking about? Of course it is.” Focalor said, hugging his king tighter. 

Then, the wind djinn noticed his king’s voice. It had a monotonous aura—one of which Focalor has heard before, and that he knows for a fact is a prelude to something unpleasant.

The wind djinn could only guess what his king was mulling over.

**His curse.**

This time around, however, Focalor reminded himself of why they were down here in the first place. Sinbad wished to reap the rewards of his fruitful kingdom. He wanted tonight to be one filled with joy and fun and laughter. So, instead of giving Sinbad a talk like he did back in the bathhouse, Focalor moved to turn his king to face him. He took both of his feather lined hands and cradled his king's face in them.

It took a second, but Sinbad eventually looked up into deep, understanding ochre eyes and awaited what his djinn had to say.

“Dance with me?” Focalor asked, and his king’s eyes lit up in surprise.

“You—want to dance? In front of a crowd?”

“I want to **_exist_** with you tonight. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Sinbad could only chuckle at his own words being used against him, and how they were said in such a sweet, soothing tone. He took his djinn’s hands in his own, kissed the tops of both of them, and then stood to embrace Focalor.

“You’re amazing.” Was all he said, burying his face into the crook of Focalor’s neck, despite the numerous itchy feathers of his djinn’s shoulder pads.

Focalor wasn’t expecting the hug but returned it in full nonetheless. Normally, his king would persist in negative self-talk, digging himself deeper and deeper until he’d be in the midst of a full-fledged episode. Focalor is unsure whether it was his words or the beautiful, refreshing festival scene, but for the first time, Sinbad let his woes fade away in favor of enjoying life for a night.

The wind djinn gripped him tighter. He’s so happy. He’s happy that, whatever the reason may be, his king is allowing himself to let go.

“I have an amazingly talented, knowledgeable, and strong king.” Focalor replied, releasing Sinbad from the hug and gesturing to the dancing crowd below the stage where the professional dancers swished and swayed to the music.

They walked over until they got a bit closer, and then Sinbad stopped them just before they’d get close enough for him to be recognized by his citizens as their king.

Focalor turned to him. “What’s wrong?”

“You—I don’t want to do this with you unless you feel comfortable.” Sinbad said, his grasp on his djinn’s hand tightening. “Your conversation with Steinar was with _one_ person. Are you… sure you’re ready to interact with a crowd?”

“I never said anything about dancing with _the crowd_ , did I?” Focalor offered a soft slime to his king, and then gave him a light peck on the cheek. “I believe I said I wanted to dance with _you.”_

Sinbad wasn’t necessarily prone to blushing, but the sentiment was too warm and caused his face to redden. “I… well—ok. So long as you’re sure.”

“Absolutely.” Focalor said, and then dragged his king into the large group of warm bodies.


	3. Sway

Within seconds, Sinbad found himself right at home swirling about to the rambunctious beats and melody. He led Focalor to the heart of the dance floor, practically twirling the two of them there. The wind djinn would be lying if he said he didn’t feel claustrophobic, but he found it easier to ignore the more he kept his eyes on his king.

Speaking of eyes… they were certainly on the King of Sindria, watching the sparkling tail of his garment ripple through the festive air. And as the wind djinn wouldn’t lie about his claustrophobia, he wouldn’t lie to himself about his jealousy either. Sin is indeed the king, and such a person warrants attention, but he is Focalor’s king, too—Focalor’s chosen candidate. 

Luckily, his king kept his promise, denying all the reaching hands and glittering eyes in favor of his ethereal companion. 

“What are you standing there like a twig in the mud for? Dance!” Sinbad’s smile shone brighter than any multicolored festival light.

And who was Focalor to deny it?

Of course, he was clumsy.

Focalor spent the first five minutes of his impromptu dance lesson almost tripping over his king’s feet.

“It’s ok,” Sinbad reassured. “Lead with your chest and arms and your feet will follow.”

Focalor nodded, attempting to replicate his king’s moves the best he could.

Soon enough, he felt like he wouldn’t fall to his doom every time he put one foot in front of the other. A start.

“This is hard,” Focalor spoke over the crowd and music. “I mostly float, you know.”

“All the more reason for you to exercise your legs! If you don’t use it, you lose it.”

“Easy for the conqueror of the seven seas to say.”

“C’mon now—oh! This is perfect.” Sinbad’s face perked up at the music and how it changed from energetic to calm and warm. “What better way to teach you than a waltz?”

“Oh, dear.”

“Put your hands on my shoulders.”

“But the crowd—”

“—is busy. Look.” Sinbad gestured with his arm to the people around them, all wrapped up in partner dances of their own. “The floor is ours.”

Focalor took one more glimpse around to be sure. His king’s words were true. The crowd _is_ preoccupied. So why was he still so nervous?

“I—don’t know.”

“Why?” Sinbad walked up to his djinn and held the other’s hands in his own. “Of course, I’d never pressure you into something you don’t want to do.”

“I want to,” Focalor responded too quickly, too eager. “I do.”

His king took two steps back and had a smirk on his face that either alluded to something brilliant or mischievous. He then surprised Focalor with a bow.

“Then, may I have this dance?”

Focalor couldn’t help but smile at the scene. It’s nostalgic. The last time his king bowed to him was in the belly of his dungeon. It was a symbol of not only respect but mutual trust. 

And Focalor did trust and respect this incredibly, beautifully complicated human man.

So he took his hand.

“You may.”

Sinbad began with a simple back-and-forth step motion, and once Foclaor was content with that, he introduced more complex waltz moves. Since it’s a slow dance, Focalor was able to master the basics with just a few minutes, and actually felt comfortable doing so.

“This is nice.” He admitted, swaying to the music as he would with the currents of the element he wielded.

“Hate to say I told you so.” Sinbad laughed.

“No. You _don’t.”_

“You’re right. But only because I knew you’d be an amazing dancer.”

“You knew?” Focalor said, wrapping his arms more firmly around his king. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

“How can it be? Your physique screams dancer, after all.” Sinbad jokes, mimicking his djinn’s firm grip. 

“Are you certain that wasn’t just you being unable to keep your eyes off me?” Focalor smirked.

“You’re no fun.”

“Then why did you want to dance with me, your _mighty highness?”_

Sinbad smiled back for a moment… and then something in his eyes changed. The warm, golden glow was still there, but there’s something reflective about them now.

“What’s wrong?” Focalor asked, changing his demeanor as well from playful to genuine.

It took his king a moment to respond, but when he did, he looked at his djinn with the weight of worlds in his eyes. “Nothing.” He said, and Focalor knew he was being honest.

“Then… what’s—”

“This is great, isn’t it? Existing with one another?”

Focalor was at a loss for words, simply because his king looked more serene than he’d ever seen him. The festival lights danced around his head in a halo of calm glee, and from his expression, Focalor assumed his mind to be as clear as the ocean he had called home for the better part of his life. 

And for the first time in a long time, Focalor could _barely_ sense the curse.

This festival atmosphere is clearly what he needed.

“It is.” Focalor responded. “I’m glad the holiday makes you feel better.”

_“You_ make me feel better.” Sinbad broke the air with those five words, stunning his djinn into silence once again. 

Before the wind djinn could respond, Sinbad drew him in close. Focalor was expecting a light kiss to the nose or something like that, but instead, Sinbad pressed into him and wrapped his arms around the other’s waist.

“You make me feel better,” Sinbad repeated, but this time using a quiet voice only meant for his djinn’s ears.

A brief hot flash of embarrassment coursed through Focalor. As much as he felt the same towards his king, they were still in the public eye and the wind djinn didn’t want his king to garner any more unwanted attention.

But then, Sinbad tightened his hold, and _this_ grip didn’t feel anything close to the serenity his king displayed just moments ago. Focalor is sure Sinbad would cause his new magenta garment to wrinkle with how tightly he held on.

And just like that the aura of the curse returned, albeit not nearly as potent as it normally felt thank goodness.

This hug now felt bleak… ominous.

And then Focalor felt a pang of anger—not towards his king, but at the curse. Just when Sinbad was feeling good, the curse swept through his soul and stole the smile from it. 

Focalor hugged back just as hard.

“I swore to protect you,” Focalor whispered. “I won’t— _we_ won’t let it win.”

Sinbad’s sigh of relief brushed over the feathers adorning Focalor’s shoulder pads. “Ok.” Was all he said in response.

✭

Luckily, the upbeat energy of the evening had a way of convincing even the most forlorn souls to smile. It didn’t take too long to get Sinbad up and dancing again.

Surprisingly, it was Focalor who suggested he take a breather and sit down on a nearby bench. Sinbad asked if he was sure.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll dance vicariously through you.” Focalor said.

“Alright. You know where to find me.”

And with that, his king vanished like a phantom into the crowd.

Focalor closed his eyes and let the music roll over him. 

He was correct in his initial prediction about his legs. They could only take so much commotion before they got tired. But he didn’t wish to keep his king from enjoying the music, especially since the sour mood from before had finally evaporated. Focalor wanted Sin to dance to his heart's content.

Or rather… he did until he saw a group of fawning women plucking at every thread on his outfit.

The same jealousy returned from before when the whole crowd had been looking at their king with “admiration.”

Focalor would stop to be ashamed of this emotion if he’d been in a more reasonable mindset. He knew his king is amorous in nature… but after the talk in the bathhouse, Focalor felt _different_ about his king’s flirtatiousness.

Sin _had_ said he’d be his if Focalor promised the same in return.

That’s what he had said, right?

He _didn’t_ say he’d be _solely_ his. After all, they were two completely different beings. So how come the wind djinn wanted to walk right up behind Sinbad and plant his lips on his king’s in front of all those women anyways?

Of course, he knew better than that, but… 

Suddenly, Sinbad took one woman by the hand and seamlessly twirled her around and around before dipping her by the waist. All the other women around them were a mess of longing whines and cries, yearning to be in the position of the lady in Sinbad’s arms.

Focalor cursed himself _and_ his legs (especially his legs) for being unable to dance like that. If he could… maybe then he too would be able to—no. Absolutely not. He is _absolutely not_ getting jealous over a bunch of mortal women. 

Sin said he was his, and that’s that… 

Still, he looked on.

Sinbad, being the generous man he is, elected to give each one of the dames a chance to spin around with him on the dance floor.

Every twirl and dip stirred up that unpleasant emotion in Focalor’s gut the longer he watched.

Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. And, well, if he tried, his mind forgot _who_ his king was dancing with and focused only on the graceful alluring form of Sinbad alone.

He then realized he now has an uninterrupted view of his king’s body in his wondrous festival attire. Focalor isn’t sure if Sin picked that one out in particular because he _wanted_ to wear it or because he _wanted his djinn to see him wear it._ As much as he hated to presume, his emotions were currently preferring the latter possibility; this outfit appeared to be the most form-fitting one to date. Even under the blaring lights hanging over the dance floor, Focalor could make out the subtle impressions of musculature beneath the fabric.

Sinbad twirled again and again, and this time when he stopped to dip the latest woman in his arms, his eyes flicked upward and landed on his djinn. 

And then he _smirked._

_**Oh.** _

Oh he knew _exactly_ what he had been doing this _whole time._

_Well_ then.

If the conqueror of the seven seas wished to tempt the wrath of a djinn, so be it.

With a determined stride in his step, Focalor did as he thought of doing before and walked up behind his king in front of the group of women. However, unlike his previous thoughts, he opted not to kiss him… not yet, anyway.

“Pardon me, ladies.” He cut in. “May I steal our king for a moment?”

A chorus of pouts and whines erupted from the women, but Sinbad was quick to silence them.

“Now now, everyone. There are plenty more people to dance with. Enjoy the evening!” He said with a smile before waving a farewell to them all.

As soon as the women turned their heads, Focalor gripped his king’s wrist _tight_ and strode off to a more secluded area of the festival. He found a moonlit garden with a small bushel maze. 

That will do.

The wind djinn unceremoniously pushed his king down one of the maze’s pathways and then checked to see if they were followed.

“Focalor what in the heavens are you—”

“Don’t you dare pretend you haven’t the _slightest_ clue, my king.” Focalor spun around to corner him once he verified the coast was clear.

Sinbad shrugged and offered a sheepish grin. “I’m not pretending.” He said, but Focalor knew him well enough to pick up on the coy hint in his tone.

“Interesting.” Focalor put both hands on his hips. “Because I could have sworn you glanced up at me in the midst of dancing with those women with a _very peculiar expression_ on your face.”

“An expression?” Sinbad said as if he had no idea. “What kind of expression?”

“The kind you make when you know **_precisely_** what you’re doing.”

“Did I?” Sinbad brought a hand up to his chin like he was in thought.

“Yes. You did.” Focalor drew close and put both his hands on his king’s shoulders. “And what’s more—you also looked as if _I wouldn’t do anything about it.”_

Sinbad’s face may appear clueless, but his body language reflects the opposite, leaving himself completely open to any action his djinn may take next. 

“Well then. What are you going to do, Focalor?” 

_And there it is._ That unbelievable tone of temptation—his king’s face changing like the flip of a coin to reflect it.

The wind djinn smirked and moved directly next to Sinbad’s ear. “It sounds like you _want_ me to do something.” He said in a deeper voice.

It made a small trail of excitement prickle up Sinbad’s spine. He knew it may have been risky business tempting his djinn— _daring_ him to rip him away from that flock of women. He had even wondered briefly if Focalor would have made a _public spectacle_ out of the whole thing. Luckily, Focalor was the one who knew better.

“Do I?” Sinbad asked, his voice sounding weaker than he would have liked.

Focalor picked up on it the moment his king spoke the words.

Instead of replying verbally, he finally— _finally_ —pressed his lips to Sinbad’s. 

His king began to practically _claw_ at the other’s arms in an effort to get closer, but Focalor wouldn’t allow that just yet, no. He wanted his king to realize exactly how irritated he’d made his djinn.

He kissed Sinbad gently, slowly, even though his king clearly wanted more.

And then Focalor had a brilliant idea.

He pulled away to reveal his king’s face—now flushed from the base of his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Not so fast. We made an agreement, didn’t we?”

“Wh—Focalor, c’mon.” Sinbad pouted. How cute.

The wind djinn shook his head. “You told me I could have you all to myself _after_ we enjoy the festival. I intend to honor that.” 

“Ok, fine then, I revoke it!” Sinbad said, crossing his arms. “Now _kiss me.”_

“Come now, your highness.” Focalor chuckled. “A good king should be patient, should he not?”

“I—you—that’s cold.”

The wind djinn smiled at him before placing a soft kiss to his king’s right cheek. He lingered for a few seconds, bringing a hand up to cup Sinbad’s face. He then motioned for them both to return to the heart of the festival. “You started it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I hope y'all have enjoyed and hope this quenches your rare pair thirst! More to come!


	4. Night

A king did not pout.

However, Sinbad never cared for the traditional aspects of royalty.

And so, he allowed himself a small scour as Focalor led him back to the dance floor after their impromptu, secluded getaway. 

He’d make sure to get his djinn back for that, but for now, he supposed he could enjoy what was left of the evening. And when Focalor turned around with a beaming smile on his face, Sinbad thought some more dancing wouldn’t _hurt._

Land seemed to blend together with the sky as they danced and danced, the tempo of the music only growing faster with each passing song.

After a while, Sinbad felt the barrier between “king” and “citizens” degrade further and further until they were all a churning crowd of human beings. Well… human beings and one djinn.

And the only thing that djinn found more enjoyable than dancing is watching his king dance and smile and become lost in the music.

Focalor didn’t know how much time had passed since they began, nor did he particularly care. He felt something absurd welling up within him for the first time in such a long time he practically forgot how it felt: glee. Pure, lighthearted, childish _glee._ It made him laugh and giggle as if he were a human young and infatuated with the world as he swirled around and around with his king.

For a brief moment tonight, he felt fear, too. He was afraid the past would repeat itself and that the curse’s influence would win yet again.

Only this time, Focalor felt like the universe was on Sinbad’s side—on _their_ side.

And he actually, legitimately prayed for the first time in both his immortal and past mortal life to whatever higher powers guided the stars to please, please let it stay this way for as long as it could. 

“It’s almost time for the fireworks!” Sinbad said to him above the noise of the crowd. “C’mon. I know the best spot!”

Focalor laughed as his king dragged him to where he was going. “Of course you do, my king.”

Surprisingly, this place was not a high peak or a large, flat plain where one would think they could get the best view. Rather, Sinbad led them to a lower area of the island away from the festivities surrounded by small trees.

Upon closer inspection, they were all fruit trees. Fruits of many kinds gave off a fresh, citrus smell that mingled with the cool night air.

Where they came to stand was on the edge of a small clearing. It gave an uninterrupted view of the sky.

“You weren’t lying,” Focalor said, his hand coming to rest on the stone railing of the gate put up for safety. “This is a magnificent spot.”

“Told ya.” Sin replied with a signature wink. “It may be a small island, but there are still areas of it only I know about.”

“That’s nice,” Focalor said. “Having these little areas to yourself, I mean. It must feel more of a home and less of a kingdom to you that way.”

“You’re not wrong. Though… I won’t lie. Sometimes, I think I'm selfish for keeping these areas all to myself.”

Focalor rolled his eyes and drew in close to his king, putting his hands on his shoulders and resting his head next to Sin’s.

“You built this country from the ground up. Surely you deserve to be a _little_ selfish.”

Sinbad smiled. “Really?”

“Of course. This is, after all, _your_ home as much as it is your citizens.”

Sinbad turned around and gave a light peck to his djinn’s nose. “It’s _our_ home.”

Focalor felt his cheeks warm at that remark.

That’s right.

He is using plurals as of late like “us” and “our”. Foclaor felt like he’d never get tired of hearing Sinbad say them.

“Right.” The wind djinn pressed their foreheads together. _“Our_ home.”

A loud burst of sound followed by small crackles rang through the sky. Both Sinbad and Foclaor turned their heads at the abrupt noise that kicked off the final show of the night. Yellows, purples, reds, blues, and greens of all hues stippled the sky until they blended in with the stars.

Sinbad glanced at Focalor and watched his djinn become fully immersed in the display. He’s beyond elated that his djinn could find enjoyment in holidays such as this once more. Sinbad couldn’t imagine how long it’s been for him.

“Beautiful.” He heard Focalor whisper absently, his eyes darting from one burst of color to the next, and then the next.

Sinbad has always been a cheesy man, so he definitely couldn’t help himself now. “Yeah. I guess the fireworks are beautiful, too.”

Focalor turned his head to his king and raised a brow. It took him a few seconds to realize what Sinbad meant, and the moment it did hit him, he snorted a laugh and playfully jabbed his king’s shoulder. “Do you ever stop, Sin?”

“I’m afraid not.” Sinbad moved to lean his head on his djinn’s shoulder. “You’re stuck with me.”

He felt the rise and fall of Foalor’s shoulders as he sighed deeply. “Well, even if I didn’t know exactly what I was getting myself into at the time, I’m _glad_ I’m stuck with you.”

“Careful.” Sinbad smiled. “You might be speaking too soon.”

Focalor shook his head. He turned them both so he was facing his king eye to eye and then held both his hands. “ _I_ don’t think I am.”

And even though this moment was infused with light-hearted humor, Sinbad felt the weight of those words, and knew from the way Focalor looked at him, too, that he _meant it._

✭

By the time the fireworks were over and the citizens of Sindria began closing up shop, Sinbad could have sworn they just experienced _two_ nights of fun-filled festivities as opposed to one. Maybe it was all the dancing they did or the atmosphere in general, but by the time Sinbad fell back onto his plush bedding he was ready to sleep through the next week.

“Tired already, my king? I think the years are catching up to you.” Focalor snickered.

“Yeah, well. You’re immortal and you got pretty tired from just a bit of dancing.” Sinbad said before rolling over to face the wall his bed was pressed up against.

“That’s only because I mainly _float._ You use your legs _all the time.”_ Focalor countered and moved through the air to sit next to his king. “That says something.”

“Whatever, you big blue bully. I’m tired, so what? No big deal.”

“Well…” Focalor drawled, drumming his fingers against his chin. “If you’re _this_ tired, you probably don’t have the energy to _help me out of this suit.”_

As if a match was suddenly struck with light, Sinbad physically jolted and spun around to face his djinn. “Wh—I can do that! I’m not _that_ old yet!”

“Surrre.” Focalor chuckled and then rose to stand in front of the large mirror next to his king’s dresser. “I’ll believe it when I see it, your majesty.”

Any fatigue Sinbad spoke of moments ago seemed to vanish as he sprang up and out of the bed and marched over to his djinn. “Well?” He put his hands on his hips. _“Turn around.”_

“As you command, my king.” Focalor smiled but did as he was told.

The wind djinn could hear soft, irritated mumbling from his king’s mouth as he less-then-delicately began to undo the small feathered cape attached to the shoulder pads that came down to Focalor’s waist. He couldn’t help but laugh a little. It appears age was a bit of a touchy spot with his king. Perhaps it was because he’s afraid of losing his youthful charm. But that was impossible, Focalor thought. No matter what age his king reached, Sinbad always had a boyish, humorous quality to his words and mannerisms. 

“If it’s any consultation,” Focalor said, raising his arms so his king could remove the cape. “You’ll always look divine in my eyes, Sin.”

Sinbad laughed along as well as he crossed the room to lay the cape down neatly on a chair before returning to undo the rest of his djinn’s outfit. “ _Now_ who’s the sappy one?”

“Not sappy. I’m merely being honest.”

“‘Surrre,’ as you say.”

“Hurry up and get this off me, will you?”

“Why? You were boasting about this outfit a few hours ago.”

“And you promised me I could have you _all to myself_ after the festival.” Focalor crossed his arms. “It is unwise to keep a djinn waiting.”

Sinbad snickered, and then as if he wanted to tempt Focalor’s irritation further, he began tracing long, slow lines that followed the seams of his djinn’s outfit. He drew close to Focalor’s ear and whispered lowly, “Can I not savor _unwrapping my gift?”_

There was no hope of hiding the small shiver that Focalor felt run down his spine. “Is—is this payback for what I did in the garden?”

Sinbad hummed in thought. He truly meant nothing by undressing his djinn slowly, but he decided to take that option and use it in his favor because he _could_ , and it could be _fun._

“That’s right. Payback. Now stand still and _take it.”_ Sinbad said, emphasizing those last two words with a strong grope to Focalor’s hips. “Or, I could retire. I am still _quite tired_ from dancing.”

Despite their playful banter, Focalor’s reaction told Sinbad he had taken an immediate liking to this turn in the mood. He could see the long, elaborate mane of feathers that was Focalor’s hair shake along with his body. He felt the wind djinn suck in a heavy breath before exhaling, finding his king’s hands and placing his own atop them.

“No, I’ll… I’ll stay still.”

“Good,” Sinbad said, secretly loving how quickly he could render his djinn’s voice desperate and soft.

And Focalor _is_ desperate.

_Of course, he is!_

He had to endure the entire evening with his king beside him in what is probably the most handsome, form-fitting garment he owned—and he couldn’t even touch! He promised. He really did. And maybe he should have gone to hell with that promise and accepted Sinbad’s obvious invitation when they were in the bushel maze… because now, he had to be subjected to _this._ And this was _**torture.**_

But he wanted Sin enough that he’d honor the man’s terms.

And honestly? Any affection from his king felt amazing, be it the light pecks on the face or the impromptu romps they’ve been partaking in more recently as of late. But the wind djinn would be lying if he said he didn’t mind the slow pace his king was so intent on setting for this evening.

Payback–shmayback. _This isn’t fair._

Still, Focalor surrendered and allowed Sinbad to do as he said; his king diligently undid, lifted off, unclasped, and took apart Focalor’s garment bit by bit as if he was the most treasured gift to be handled with care—as if he were precious.

And by the time Sinbad undressed his djinn to where he was only sporting silk briefs, Focalor reasoned he didn't mind being treated like something precious _at all_. Still, he wished his king would _finally_ move to continue this pace _without clothing_ on both their ends.

“There,” Sinbad said when he pulled away. “That wasn’t too excruciating, was it?”

Focalor rolled his eyes despite the churning heat his skin is feeling from his king’s touches. “Satisfied?”

Sinbad smirked. Oh, he loved how he had come to read his djinn almost as easily as the ethereal being could read him. He wrapped his arms around Focalor’s neck and basked in the way the slide of fabric against his now-exposed skin made him shiver.

“No.” He spoke lowly. “I still have one piece left.”

Focalor watched as his king slid one hand down to the band of the silk briefs, tracing every contour of his body as he went.

 _Gods_ , Focalor wanted to kiss him.

He wanted to bite down on his lips and his neck and taste that beautiful liquid gold coursing through Sinbad’s veins again.

But, if he did that, it would break the mood they have going on right now that his king is obviously enjoying.

He wished he sounded just a smidge more confident when he replied, “Well, what are you waiting for?” Anything to get Sinbad to move this night along. Anything.

Sinbad smiled at how compliant his djinn was being all of a sudden. Usually, in moments such as these, Focalor takes the lead. Not that Sinbad minds, though. He found handing over control to a being he trusted and—to a being he trusted so much to be a great relief of stress, seeing how he was the one in control as a king in most aspects of life.

But here, watching Focalor’s breath hitch at the smallest of touches… oh, it was _such a treat._ Sinbad wouldn’t let it go to waste.

“Go lie down. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He said, pressing a light kiss to his djinn’s forehead.

Sinbad thought Focalor would for sure dispute _that_ —dispute not allowing him to undress his king in the same way, but no; he went over to the bed willingly.

The look on Focalors face as he sat down—with his head lowered and his eyes to the floor and his teeth biting at his lower lip—was one Sinbad would have never thought to see on the face of a being so proud: he is… shy?

Or maybe, he’s simply brimming with anticipation to the point that the look comes off as shy? Sinbad is living for it either way.

The King of Sindria made haste with his own garment, deeming it rude to keep Focalor waiting more than he already has. 

Focalor was expecting his king to still be dressed to some degree like he was, but apparently, even if Sinbad’s attitude displayed the opposite, he must be edging on impatience as well. The wind djinn watched the bare, beautifully sculpted form of his king walk over to him, and in the moonlight shining through the open balcony, he practically _looked_ like a marble statue.

He knew he must not be hiding his expression very well judging by Sin’s amused chuckle. 

And that, Sinbad was. That same look Focalor has on right now mimicked the one during the firework show.

_**Mesmerized.** _

Focalor watched his king sink down to his knees atop him on the bed, and for a while, he seemed content with just running his hands up and down cool, blue skin. Sinbad had a laziness to his eyes as he did so, but it was a calm, relaxed lazy. It made Focalor think that right here, right now, his king’s mind was nowhere but here in the present moment with his djinn, and by the gods, Focalor hoped that was true; Sinbad accumulates so much stress all by himself in that head of his.

Just for _one, single night_ , the wind djinn wanted his king to be free.

“I’ve been thinking.” Sinbad’s voice broke through the night air within the room.

And Focalor’s first thought was ‘oh, no,’ because anytime his king thinks, it has a 50/50 chance of being something good or something terribly bad that’s weighing him down.

Luckily, tonight, it’s the former.

Sinbad smiled down at this unbelievably marvelous being who swore to protect him no matter what—who swore to always be by his side and defend the place he calls home. 

Focalor made no move to say anything back, so he continued.

“Ever since we talked in the bathhouse… I can’t explain it. I feel like, maybe, I want you by my side in _all_ aspects of life.”

Focalor quirked a brow. This certainly wasn’t what he expected to come out of his king’s mouth.

“Aren’t I?” He asked.

Sinbad sighed before leaning down so his arms were resting on Focalor’s chest.

“Not every aspect.” He said, wishing he were better with words for what he’s about to propose. “Yes, you’re my djinn. You help me protect my country—my home… but, I was thinking, maybe…”

Focalor could tell whatever his king was trying to say was something of extreme importance to him, and of course, he wanted to hear Sinbad out, but why in a moment like this? Of course, _of course_ , he’d listen to Sin, but he wished, just for tonight, his king would put his mind on pause so they could pick up where they left off.

However, if Focalor knew that look in Sinbad’s eyes, it means whatever he wants to say needs to be said, and it needs to be said _now._

Focalor sat up and cradled Sinbad in his lap. “What is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if this matters to y'all, but I'd like to mention at this point that I'm one of the slime balls who have not read the manga so... yeah.


	5. Blood

Focalor sat up and cradled Sinbad in his lap. “What is it?”

A beat.

Then another.

“I know what I’m about to ask has probably never been done before, but I’m past the point of caring. I’ve decided it’s what I want.” Sinbad said. He lifted his head so he could look at his djinn.

“I’d like for you to be a… confidant of my court.”

Focalor raised a brow, his eyes darting back and forth in confusion. “Confidant?”

“Yes,” Sinbad said. “Not a general, but a confidant.”

“As in…?”

“As in someone who helps me run my kingdom. A trusted confidant.”

Focalor felt his initial desire subside (if only slightly) at the weight of this proposition.

Sinbad wants him to be… to be…

“Are you… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

The wind djinn watched as his king smiled and shook his head.

“I told you, didn’t I?” He said, leaning in to brush his lips over his djinn’s cheeks. “It’s what I want.”

And, of course, Focalor knew his king always had a way of getting what he wanted. If that weren’t the case, Sindria would be non-existent.

He had his concerns. Of course he did. But with Sinbad looking at him like this—with so much determination and confidence in his eyes—he knew his king wouldn’t be backing down until he had an answer.

And what a fantasy this was turning out to be: Focalor, Sinbad’s most trusted djinn, at his side consistently, aiding him in his policies, helping him watch over their shared home…

“Yes.” The word came out as effortlessly as a breath. “If this is what you want, then yes. And… I—being your confidant… I want that too.” Focalor sighed, rubbing their noses together. “I want to be close to you like that all the time.”

Sinbad sighed as well, pressing a kiss to his djinn’s neck.

Oh, he’s beyond pleased to hear Focalor agree instantaneously. He wants more than anything to rule with his djinn. To hell if it’s unorthodox. He’s managed to sustain Focalor’s form all on his own in this world. There’s nothing left he has time to ponder if yes/no, right/wrong.

Then, against his better judgment, he whispered, “Good. If I can’t marry you, I’ll damn well have the next best thing.”

Sinbad thought Focalor’s immediate reaction would be a heartfelt laugh or a small snicker, but at those words, his ocher eyes grew wide and his mouth slightly agape.

“Wh—you… _marry?”_ He heard the wind djinn’s voice crack.

And maybe he shouldn’t have said it so soon, even as a jest. But damn it, it’s been _years, hasn’t it?_ It’s been years that they’ve fought together and looked after this kingdom, and while it _hasn’t_ been years that they’ve looked at each other with something other than mutual respect in their eyes, Sinbad couldn’t bring himself to regret his words.

_“Would_ you?” He asked, and he wished he did so with humorous intentions this time, but no. He _needed_ to know.

“Would I…?”

“If we could… would you, y’know… marry me?”

And now, of course _now_ , Focalor laughed after a second of silence, but upon listening intently, Sinbad found no notes of mockery or judgment to be found. Only joy.

Sinbad couldn’t help but laugh along.

A part of Focalor was in disbelief—that his king had actually just asked if he’d marry him. A part of him also feared he’d wake up and none of this would be real. But his king felt so warm and bright and serene atop him that it couldn’t be anything other than reality. A King and a Djinn. What a thought.

He lunged to plant a fierce kiss on Sinbad’s lips, hoping it would make up for any grand gesture of returning his sentiment. And judging by the way his king kissed back just as fiercely, he knew Sinbad did not need any. 

“I think so,” Focalor said, nearly breathless when he pulled away. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep you in line, Sin.”

His king snickered. “Well then, consider yourself the King of Sindria’s _official right-hand confident_ from this point forward.”

They were just words in technicality, but hearing Sinbad say them here, just for the two of them, felt like a strong declaration that brought Focalor more peace of mind than he’d thought. It brought him a certain kind of freedom—one that had been unfortunately unattainable from within. 

It felt good.

So, _so good._

“Does this mean I get special treatment?”

“Special treatment? Hasn’t that been what I’ve given you all night long?”

“No, no,” Focalor shook his head, placing his hands on both of Sinbad’s cheeks. “Not like that… as fun as it was.”

Sinbad quirked a brow. “Then… how do you mean?”

He watched Focalor grin devilishly before drawing in close to whisper, “Do I have permission to dote on you whenever and however I please?”

Sinbad would be lying if he said the images his djinn’s words conjured up didn’t make him shiver: light pecks on the cheek throughout working days, quiet moments in a palanquin leaning against one another on the way to meet with foreign ambassadors, heated, impromptu moments of passion stollen away against a wall after long, grueling board meetings… 

Focalor moved to suck at his king’s neck, eliciting a small, pleasurable moan from Sinbad.

“Judging from how _roused_ you are, I assume you like that idea, my king,” Focalor said in between licks and nips. 

And oh, _of course_ he liked it. Sinbad _more_ than liked it. He _loved_ it, and he mourned how those thoughts becoming reality would surely stir up trouble amongst the court.

“One or two kisses between meetings. That’s all I can allow.” Sinbad struggled to say.

Focalor loves this. He loves how much carnal desire pulses through Sinbad's veins for him and only for him. And he loves more than he can put into words how his king cherishes him enough that he’d be with him like that if they could.

That he’d… marry him. Gods. It’s strange to think about and even stranger to say, but far from unpleasant.

In a moment of fearful vulnerability, he thinks of how he’s feeling the most human he has felt across all his and Sin’s trysts. More than the suit… even more than the bathhouse. 

He hopes that by being Sinbad’s confidant, they’d be as close as they could to one another. Focalor pictures it as well: days upon days spent together doing the good, the bad, and the ugly required to run a kingdom—to protect their home. He drank the image up.

Speaking of which…

Sinbad’s pulse was becoming more and more prevalent to him as he sat here one article away from being bare with a fully-exposed king straddling his lap.

As he sucked and ran his lips gingerly across the skin of Sinbad’s neck, the strong pulse of blood beat steadily against the wind djinn’s tongue.

And _oh_ , he remembers.

He remembers how incredibly, undeniably divine Sinbad’s life essence tastes.

Focalor wants to kiss and touch and ravish his king until dawn breaks the cool air of night… but even more than that, he wants to—he _needs_ —

He could feel his king’s light huffs and moans against the skin of his shoulder as he reached his tanned hands down to the band of the silk briefs Focalor nearly forgot he’d been wearing this whole time.

“Sin—” Focalor groaned, voice sounding a tad more desperate than he would have liked.

Focalor pressed into Sinbad, hiding his face in his now bruised neck. While his king consented for him to bite once, he had to ask again lest he risk Sinbad dropping their tryst. Only… gods. He’s not sure why he feels so awkward asking. How should he even—

“Go ahead.” Sinbad’s voice broke through Focalor’s churning anxiety.

“Wh—what?”

“You’ve been sucking at my neck like a starved leech,” Sinbad spoke lowly. "You… you want to bite me again don’t you? Like last time?”

Incredible. But also slightly unnerving how easily his king can read him now. Then again, as Sinbad had just stated, it isn’t hard to guess given the size of the blooming bruise.

“I—yes, but…” _Honest. Be honest with him_. “You’re blood. I want to taste it—drink it.” Focalor curled into his king’s form, unsure why he couldn’t meet those brilliant, golden eyes as he spoke. “I don’t know why but… gods, Sin, you taste _so, so good_. Last time… it was like _the sun itself_ exploded in my mouth, down my throat, _inside of me.”_

Sinbad’s arousal only shot up more at those last three words. 

How _delicious_ that his djinn desires him on such a level.

And who was he to deny the being that has stood with him through everything—that has accepted him wholeheartedly… curse and all.

Who was he to turn away the being that he—

He couldn’t.

He could never.

And on a very, very potent level, he _wants_ to give Focalor everything he is. _He wants it so bad and so, so much._

“I said I’d give you all of me, didn’t I?” Sinbad said.

“I’d never assume.” Focalor nuzzled further into his king’s neck. “I’d never assume. I’d be hurting you if I did, after all.”

The wind djinn only heard a chuckle in response. And then, a light pressing on the back of his raven-feathered head.

“You could never hurt me.”

And gods, that stirred up a whole new breath of _something_ inside Focalor’s chest. _Just words._ But they felt like an unyielding declaration coming from his king’s mouth. They always have, even before he’d chosen Sinbad as his candidate.

_“Please.”_ Sinbad’s voice sounded weak, but not in an awful sense. Far from it. _“Bite me_. I want— _I want_ you to bite me.”

Sharp fangs pierced his taught skin without warning, and it _hurt, gods, it hurt._ But it also didn’t? It stung like hell, but in the way a pleasant, spicy wine does when it hits the back of your throat. Harsh and unforgiving for a few seconds, and then… warmth. _So, incredibly warm._

Sinbad dropped his head backward, unable to keep his pleasure silent. Luckily, his djinn’s hand was there to catch him and hold him and _how is this feeling like heaven?_

One reason could be Focalor’s slow, lethargic strokes to his member as he drank, but the bite itself felt surreal as well.

And it tasted just as much to Focalor.

He sucked slowly, meticulously, unwilling to let a single drop escape the wound. Not one, precious drop of this Sun will go to waste.

A part of Focalor felt guilty that he’s feeling more aroused now by the taste of his king’s blood than he has any time they’ve fucked before. But this is _new._ How was he supposed to know that a single lick of this delicious crimson could be enough to make him want to devour every last flutter of Sinbad’s rukh?

Carefully, he brought Sinbad down onto his back on the bed, making sure he didn’t remove his fangs in the process.

A sigh escaped his king upon lying down, Focalor registering legs coming up to wrap around his waist.

_“Please, please, Focalor.”_ He heard his king beg. 

For what, the wind djinn had a notion of. However, he was fearful of Sinbad bleeding all over himself should Foclaor move his head an inch from its position.

Unwillingly, the wind djinn drew back, cautious to withdraw from the bite mark in a way that ensured as little leakage as possible.

“I—”

“No. I said you can’t hurt me, didn’t I?” Sinbad said, voice wracked with pure need.

It made the wind djinn want to dive right back down as well as _into_ the gorgeous human being beneath him.

Still—

“Sin. Does it—the bite. Does it—”

“It feels _amazing_ ok? Please. _Trust me?”_

Whatever guilt Focalor’s mind was telling him to feel, he promptly shoved aside as quickly as he could. Of course. Of course, he trusted his king.

Focalor licked his lips of smeared blood. “Always.”

Somehow, his king’s smile is as pure as it is mischievous.

“Then, _please.”_

If an ounce of patience existed in the wind djinn, perhaps he’d tease his king, play the game, not budging until he begs well enough.

But with the _absolute divine taste_ of Sun on his tongue and more just waiting to be consumed, he obeyed the plea and dove back down to desecrate his king’s neck.

And Sinbad mustn't have been lying, for his moans grew louder and Focalor wasn’t even inside him yet.

He’s so relieved. Gods, he’s so relieved.

As best he could with his face shoved into Sinbad’s neck, Focalor rid himself of the silken briefs and maneuvered to finally, _finally_ sink inside his king.

And it’s _too much. Oh, far, far too much._ Focalor felt hot all over. The blood. The beautiful, beautiful blood, and the tight, unyielding grip on his member, and the lovely sounds his king made.

He could come right here. He really, really could. And he felt Sinbad tense up more quickly than any other time as well. 

But Focalor couldn’t let this end so abruptly. So he slowed, and then slightly sped up, and then slowed, harsh, gentle, and he heard his king call him all sorts of derogatory terms for teasing him this way.

“Damn it! Foca— _ah! Please!”_

He ignored his king the best he could for as long as he could. They’d promised each other this the whole night, haven’t they? Unfortunately for Focalor, not even being an immortal djinn could make him last forever.

With a few final, hard sucks to the wound, Focalor pulled back and practically rammed his tongue down Sinbad’s throat.

And just as last time, Sinbad could care less about the sharp tang of copper from the kiss. 

How could he with his djinn barreling into him in every sense of the word?

He’d been close to climax since Focalor sunk his fangs past the barrier of his skin, so when his djinn pulled back and looked at him with those glorious, hot, red, glowing eyes shining with nothing but carnal want in them, Sinbad came even harder than the last time.

Focalor was short to follow, his king’s name on his lips, arching up and back, his large mass of raven feathers eclipsing his muscled form like a grand mandorla.

_Beautiful_ , Sinbad thought in his post-orgazmic haze.

His chest expanded and retracted as he hovered silently over Sinbad’s form.

“I love you.”

And then Focalor realized they’ve never said that before—neither of them—in this strange joining of a relationship they’ve had. The words just… came out before Focalor could think twice. 

_But they were the truth._

And then the wind djinn realized they _have_ been for a long time.

He didn’t know why he felt fear once they were out in the open for his king to hear.

He didn’t know why he was afraid of saying them in the first place when he saw the soft, relaxed smile on Sinbad’s face after he’d said them.

“I love you, too.” Was his tired reply. Tired, but more open and calm than Focalor had seen him—more so than at the evening’s dance, and more so than when after they’d talked in the bathhouse.

He looked as at peace as Focalor had felt when Sinbad proposed he be his confidant only minutes ago.

“Sorry.” He heard Sinbad whisper.

How strange. “What do you possibly have to be sorry for, Sin?”

A small sigh. And then, “For not saying it sooner.”

Focalor only laughed and shook his head. But just as he was about to put his king’s worries at ease, Sinbad continued.

“It’s just… I’ve never—what’s the right phrase… I’ve never been in a scenario like this before.” He said, and then dropped his eyes to the side. “I’ve never committed to something like this—to love like this—before. But you…” 

A shaking hand came up to rest on Focalor’s cheek. The wind djinn grabbed it and pressed a kiss to its palm.

“I guess it’s the first one that’s felt so natural that it took a while for me to realize it was… well, a _relationship_. A real one. And… _you deserve_ to know that. You deserve to know and I’m sorry it’s taken me—”

“Stop.” Focalor cut his king off. As adorable as it was to watch Sinbad mumble shyly and stumble over his words when he rarely does, Focalor couldn’t disagree with him more.

“You’ve only been comfortable to say it now, and that’s ok.” The wind djinn dropped down to his arms to press a kiss to his king’s forehead, then nose, then lips. “Believe me when I say I take no personal offense by that. I’m just happy to _be with_ you—whatever that looks like. No sappy words required.” Focalor grinned.

His king mirrored his smile, leaning up for another small kiss. “I appreciate that. I do. But… I know that words do make a difference, and I want to make sure you always know how much you mean to me, Focalor.”

Gods, he felt like he was sixteen years old again spouting frilly words at girls left, right, front, and center, only this time, he’s sure a light dust of blush is present on his cheeks. He’s relieved to see Focalor only smile and embrace him in return, tucking his feather-covered head beneath his chin.

“Thank you.” He heard Focalor whisper. “I… you’ve given me _more_ than you can _imagine.”_

And Sinbad at least knew a fraction of that to be true. He couldn’t fathom an existence centuries-long to dwell on everything you’ve lost.

He wrapped both arms around his djinn. “It brings me nothing but joy to know that.”

They rested in silence for a few blissful moments, enjoying the afterglow and the little sweet words they’d gift each other. Soon enough though, Focalor managed to get his king sitting back up so he could tend to the bite mark. While not as deep as it could have been, it was deep enough to require bandages.

And then, a ray of worry peaked through Focalor’s fuzzy mind. “This will most definitely be visible even from afar. Won’t it raise questions?”

Sinbad shrugged. “You’re my confidant now, aren’t you? I’ll have to introduce you as such to my court anyway. Besides, my nature is no secret to my generals.”

Focalor rolled his eyes and scoffed. _“This,”_ He motioned to the now neatly bandaged wound, “is _far larger_ than the average hickey, Sin. Jafar will interrogate you ruthlessly about it, and if not for the bite mark itself, he most certainly will want to know why you need bandages for your neck.”

“Not that you’re bragging or anything.” Sinbad huffed a laugh.

Focalor shook his head at his king’s unwillingness to take this seriously, but then again, why would he be expecting something other than that from this man?

“Not bragging. Just don’t complain to me if you get an earful for the next week.”

As worried as he was, Focalor couldn’t help but laugh along with his king at the ridiculousness of the image of Sinbad being scolded for a straight week because of a few bandages. Sinbad imagines Jafar most likely would have wanted to do so for other past misdemeanors, but had held himself back. Focalor agreed.

Upon getting comfortable on the bed once more, they both found they didn’t have much energy left to do anything except trace slow, calming patterns up and down each other’s back and sides.

“Focalor?” The wind djinn just barely heard his king ask amid an oncoming pre-sleep haze.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

For what Sinbad was thanking him for, Focalor didn’t know. And if he’s honest? He’s so tired he doesn’t think he could keep up with another conversation—even a small, nonsensical one.

Still, his curiosity is a fierce thing, and so he asked, “For what?”

A sigh escaped his king. And then a small silence before a response.

“Returning my sentiment—for… loving me back.”

_Ah, was that it?_

_Silly king._

Focalor smiled and moved to press a kiss to his bandaged neck.

“It wasn’t hard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! This one pulled on my heartstrings lol. Hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> The fic that chronologically follows this is Shifted Winds. I want to edit the first chapter before I post the second for continuity reasons (because I guess I have a continuity with this series now, wow). There will only be two chapters for that one, and then after Shifted Winds, it's subject to change, but I have another planned that is mainly from Prince Kouen's perspective visiting Sindria! Stay tuned for that :D


End file.
